by Mary Burton
“Chances are, whoever smuggled this out for him is in the prison system, and they’d be savvy enough to wipe it clean. But it’s worth a shot.” He pulled out the papers and instantly recognized Smith’s handwriting. “During the investigation three years ago I read through thousands of papers like this one written by Smith.”
“When they were released after the trial, I was able to read some of his writing. The older papers could be rambling at times, and I had the sense he was tossing in extra details to manipulate the police, as if he were creating a maze of facts. This letter is specific and detailed. His thought processes are different.”
He studied her a beat before dropping his gaze to the papers. “Can you give me the digest version?”
“It’s an accounting of all his victims, why he chose them, how long he held them and where he buried them. There is one woman that never came up in the police investigations. Her name was Delores.”
Brody would read each and every word more times than he could count but right now he wanted Jo’s take. “Any other impressions?”
“I know prisoners have ways of smuggling goods in and out of prison. But wouldn’t someone have noticed him writing these papers?”
“Depends. He might have someone on the inside looking the other way while he wrote. He’s also spent lots of time in the infirmary.”
She frowned. “I called the prison. Smith is on heavy-duty pain meds. He’s comatose.”
Brody’s lips flattened. “He commented once that he couldn’t read as well when he took pain meds. And he’s been on the meds steadily for six months.”
“And yet he wrote in clear, legible handwriting.”
“He wrote these earlier?”
She arched a brow. “I don’t think he wrote them at all. Something about them bothered me as I was reading. The handwriting looks so much like his. In fact, there is little variation in the entire missive.”
Brody frowned as he stared at the words. “As if someone were working hard to make it look like Smith wrote this.”
“Exactly. I don’t think Smith wrote this manuscript.”
“His apprentice?”
“The student learned all he could from the master, going so far as to mimic his handwriting.”
Brody tipped his head back. “How does he know where you live, Jo?”
She frowned as if that notion was finally taking root. “I don’t know.”
The apprentice or one of Smith’s flunkies had stood outside Jo’s front door. “You have good locks?”
“The best. And I use them without fail.”
“Security system?”
“ No.”
“Get one.”
She considered the order. “I will.”
Disliking the worry in her gaze, he struggled to keep his voice steady. “What other impressions do you have from the writing?”
Jo shifted back to the facts, a place he knew gave her comfort. “Smith, or whoever wrote this, mentions Robbie several times. What I can’t tell is if Robbie was present at the killings.” She leaned forward, her soft perfume floating. “He discusses meeting Robbie, who apparently was twelve when the two met. The boy’s mother, according to this, had abandoned the boy. She’d been a prostitute. But there is no telling what is true about the boy and what isn’t. He speaks fondly of the boy, as a father would talk about a child. He details examples of the boy’s intellect and remarks how quickly he learned.”
“Is Robbie writing as he remembered or as he’d like to remember?”
“Assuming Robbie is the author, I would say a bit of both. We all have a way of rewriting history and casting ourselves as the hero/victim.”
“Why would Robbie want to confirm all of Smith’s kills?”
“Affection for a teacher. A father. He wants us to know exactly what Smith accomplished.”
He watched her fold her hands in her lap. A prim and proper move or hiding how fear made her hands tremble? “When we arrested Smith we found nothing that would link him to Robbie. There were no pictures, no letters or e-mails. His mention of an apprentice was the first I ever heard of the guy.”
“All the interviews you did and no one mentioned seeing a child or a young man?”
“None. Smith was known for taking out-of-town trips often. He always drove, took plenty of supplies and gassed up in Austin before he left.”
“No properties listed under his name?”
“Nothing.”
Brody set the letter down. “He was keeping the kid tucked away somewhere. There’s a lot of land in Texas to hide a small house or a trailer.”
“I’d like to see Smith again. We are running out of time. If he’s as sick as I hear, he’s not going to last long. I’m driving up to West Livingston today.”
“Unannounced?”
“I was hoping the warden would grant me entrance because we’ve met. You can’t stop me this time.”
Brody rose, pulled an evidence bag from his desk drawer and dropped the letters into it. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I don’t like the idea of you on the open road alone knowing Robbie or some other nutcase could be out there.”
He grabbed his gun from his desk drawer and slid it into his holster. “I’m assuming you’re free for the day.”
“I am.”
“Then let’s go. The weather’s good, so we’ll fly.”
Stick to the plan.
Dr. Dayton had repeated the mantra as he sat in his house alone, his tumbler of Scotch empty. Too early for a proper man to drink, but he’d stopped worrying about proper a long time ago. He refilled his glass and lifted his gaze to the wedding portrait of his wife, Sheila. Taken fifteen years ago, she wore a simple, white silk dress with a scooped neckline and a long lace drape that highlighted her smooth, brown skin, dark brown eyes and ice blond hair. She’d been so stunning when he’d first met her that he’d not been able to speak. He’d followed her around for days on their college campus, standing back and watching her. Finally, he’d gotten the nerve to approach her after a biology class. He could be charming when he wanted to be, and it took little to charm her. They’d become an item immediately, and by their senior year they were engaged.
After graduation he’d convinced her to work while he attended dental school. The plan was that she’d get her graduate degree when he landed his first job. But during that time, the dynamic between them shifted. She lost her zest for fun and became worried about finances. She’d talked of buying a house. Of children. All things he’d not wanted. He didn’t want more responsibility than they had, and he resented her constant nagging.
Somewhere along the way she’d transformed from a princess to a hag—the proverbial ball and chain.
And now she was gone.
Stick to the plan.
He’d been telling the police for months that Sheila had run away. She’d been as unhappy with their marriage as he and had met another man. He tried to convince the cops that she was alive and well and simply hiding out, likely laughing at all the heat he was getting from the cops.
The problem was the cops didn’t believe him. They believed that he’d hurt Sheila. Based on bullshit comments from her sister about Sheila’s fear of Dayton, the cops had gotten a warrant and searched their house from top to bottom. Shit, they’d swabbed the inside of the drains, searching for blood traces.
But in the end, they’d found nothing.
His dumbass attorney had brought him to Dr. Jo Granger to interview him so that they could use her testimony on his behalf. He’d agreed because he thought he could fool her. Several times, she’d nearly tricked him and made him reveal his secrets, but he’d caught himself. Just barely. But she’d been clever and had somehow peered behind the layers, as if he were made of translucent paper, and seen his true intent.
Dr. Jo Granger. She gave the impression that she was a cold woman. Ice. But she was smart enough to know that any red-blooded male liked a challenge. Liked the idea of me
lting that ice and seeing how hot she could get.
He’d had his share of fantasies of her since he’d seen her last Tuesday. It hadn’t been wise to follow her to the mall, but he’d been unable to resist. The delightful look of shock on her face had fueled his sense of power and desire.
Stick to the plan.
Jo Granger was not part of the plan. She was a diversion he did not need.
And yet, sometimes a man owed himself a treat.
Brody and Jo arrived at the West Livingston prison before noon. He’d offered to take her to lunch, but she’d refused, her stomach too knotted to eat. She’d done her best to keep her emotions tightly wrapped and her thoughts clinical, but she was a little freaked out about the package on her porch.
The more she’d read this morning, the more rattled she’d become. She’d checked all the windows and doors to make sure they were locked, and she’d carried her cell phone everywhere until she’d reached Brody.
Smith, his apprentice or someone else knew where she lived.
Brody secured his gun, and the two were escorted to the warden’s office where they were asked to wait.
“This can’t be good,” Jo said.
“Why do you say that?” Brody stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Just a feeling.”
He turned and smiled. “I thought you were all about logic and facts.”
Her heels clicked crisply against the tiled floor. “Never underestimate the power of intuition.”
Seconds later the warden arrived. He shook hands with Brody and nodded to Jo. “I’m sorry you came all this way.”
“Why’s that?”
“Harvey Smith died two hours ago. Passed away in the infirmary.”
Brody’s face hardened. “He wasn’t expected to die so soon, was he?”
“No. His heart stopped,” the warden said, shaking his head. “All the women he killed and the families he ruined, and he not only cheated execution but the cancer.”
Brody cursed, shoving his hands in his pockets and rattling the change.
Jo snapped a loose thread on her jacket cuff. “The last link to Robbie. Gone.”
Chapter Fifteen
Monday, April 15, 9:00 A.M.
Jo arrived early enough at her mother’s salon so that they’d have at least fifteen minutes before her staff arrived for the early morning cuts.
She used her key and let herself inside. “Mom!”
“In the back room, Jo.”
Jo found her mom stocking perm and hair dye supplies on the shelf.
Candace’s hair was spiked and sprayed in place and her makeup as neat as a mask. “I don’t have much time to talk, Jo. Got lots to inventory before the day gets rolling.”
“You should turn that over to Ellie.”
“I don’t mind it.”
“You ever considered cutting back on your hours?”
“And what would I do with myself?”
“Have fun. You haven’t had fun since Daddy died.”
Candace’s eyes grew wistful. “Hard to top your daddy, baby. He was one in a million.”
Her parents had had a loving marriage. It hadn’t been perfect. They’d had their share of fights and tough times, but they’d always stuck together. “I miss Daddy.”
“Me too. Every day.” Her mother swallowed, as if squashing unwanted emotions. “What’s this all about?”
Jo wanted an honest conversation with her mother. No judgments. No finger pointing. “It’s not been announced to the media, but Harvey Lee Smith died yesterday in the prison. Doctors think his heart stopped.”
Other than a subtle tightening of her jaw, her mother had no reaction. “Why should I care if some crazy man died in prison yesterday?”
The muscles in the back of Jo’s neck tightened. “Mom, I don’t want to fight. I want to ask you point-blank if Harvey Smith is my biological father.”
Candace twisted the silver bracelets on her arm. “That is crazy talk.”
“And that isn’t an answer. It’s classic avoidance.”
Candace leveled her gaze on Jo as if she were looking at a misbehaving eight-year-old. “I don’t need your doctor talk, young lady. I am your momma.”
“I will always love Daddy no matter what, Momma. I want to understand my genetics.”
Her eyes widened with anger and a touch of panic. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She flexed the fingers of her right hand, wishing they didn’t have to have this conversation. “Mom, please, give me a straight answer.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
Jo sighed. She knew her mother well enough to know they’d go round and round like this and they’d get nowhere. “Fine, Momma, fine.”
Candace glared at Jo. “And what does that mean?”
“DNA, Mom.” Frustration raised the volume of her voice. “That will give me the answers you won’t.”
The front door of the shop chimed, reminding Jo she’d not locked the front door behind her. Candace’s face was strained and angry but she held her tongue, knowing a customer could be in earshot.
“Mom, send whoever it is away so we can finish this.”
Candace shook her head. “You know walk-ins are always welcome here. Always.”
Jo ground her teeth. “This is bigger than a damn haircut.”
“Those damn haircuts put a roof over your head and food in your belly. I’ve never turned away a customer, and I never will.”
Her mother pushed through the curtain into the salon. “Welcome to Candy’s Hair Salon.”
Jo knew there’d be no more discussion today. Frustrated and more certain than ever her mother was hiding something from her, Jo pushed through the curtain. She expected to toss a passing nod at a customer. What she saw stopped her in her tracks.
Dr. Dayton grinned at her mother. “I was hoping to get a haircut. Sign said walk-ins welcome.”
Candace reached for her smock. “Of course.”
He looked at Jo, not a hint of apology or surprise in his gaze. “Dr. Granger. Fancy meeting you here.”
Jo clenched her fingers around the strap of her purse. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting a haircut,” her mother said. All traces of anger in her voice were gone. There was no place for tension or politics in her salon when a client was on the property.
Jo shook her head. “You need to leave, Dr. Dayton.”
Dayton looked amused. “Is there a problem?”
Candace stepped forward in front of Jo. “No, there is no problem. My daughter is confused.”
Dayton’s grin widened. “Daughter. Now, I’d have thought you two were sisters.”
Candace beamed.
Jo seethed. He wasn’t here for a haircut. He’d been following her again. Had he been outside her house when she’d left this morning? She’d not seen anything suspicious, but stalkers were clever. “If you don’t leave, Dr. Dayton, I’m calling the police.”
“Jo!” her mother shouted as she moved in front of her. “That is enough out of you, little lady.”
Dayton managed to look genuinely confused. “Is there a problem, Dr. Granger?”
“Yes, there is a problem.” Jo moved in front of her mother. “Seven days ago I interviewed you about the disappearance of your wife. The next day you show up in a dress shop. And now you are here. What game are you playing, you pathetic jerk?”
“Jo!” her mother warned. “I have never heard you speak with such disrespect.” Her patience now threadbare, Jo held up her hand to silence her mother. Intellectually, she could see that she was letting Dayton manipulate her, but her emotions didn’t care about reason with such a dangerous threat near her family. “Leave now, Dr. Dayton.”
“You’re a bit prickly,” he said. The laughter had vanished from his gaze.
She clenched her fingers into tight fists. “And you are a stalker. Now leave. Or we let the cops settle it.”
Dayton looked
beyond Jo to Candace. “Mrs. Ganger, I am sorry, but I won’t be able to stay. Perhaps another time.”
Candace looked mortified. “Of course.”
“No,” Jo said. “You show up on this property, and I will call the police.”
Dayton snapped up a peppermint from the jar on the receptionist desk and slowly unwrapped it. “You’re overreacting, Dr. Granger.”
“I don’t think so, but if I am, I’ll live with it. Now get out.”
Gaze narrowing, he slowly placed the candy in his mouth and folded the wrapper in half. “See you soon.” He turned, tossed the wrapper in the trash, and left.
Jo shook with anger. She’d written off the mall as coincidence but not this. This place was too far out of his way and too unlike any place he’d frequent.
“Jolene Marie Granger,” her mother said, teeth clenched. “If you think you’re going to get back at me by insulting my clients, you better think twice.”
Jo faced her mother, her fingers still fisted at her side. “Do you think I’m trying to get back at you?”
“Yes, I do.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she silenced the first remark that came to mind and slowly unfurled her fingers. “The man is a person of interest, which really means he’s a suspect , in the disappearance of his wife. She’s been missing for months.”
The fire blazing in her mother’s gaze didn’t cool a degree. “People go missing all the time for all kinds of reasons!”
“Everything I know about body language and interview techniques tells me he knows his wife did not run away. I’d bet my last dollar that he killed her.”
She planted hands on her narrow hips. “Innocent until proven guilty, Jo.”
Jo tipped her head back, praying for the patience that was her trademark. “Don’t let that man in your shop again. He is poison, and he’s trying to get to me.”
Her mother muttered as she pulled a cigarette and lighter out of her smock pocket. “Why is it always about you?”
Irritation clawed at her gut. “This is not about me. It’s about keeping you safe.”
Candace shoved the cigarette in her mouth. She flicked the lighter three times before it lit. “You keep telling yourself that.”
